


Phobia

by WhatLocked



Series: Established [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: And a bit of an arsehole, Apologies for poor French translations, Lies, M/M, Mycroft is a manipulative bastard, Phobias, Sherlock is a lazy arsed git, Somehow John always manages to get caught in the middle, Ventriloquist Dummies, and the handy kind, but no cooking, but there is sex, of the oral kind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-07-10 22:24:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7010815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatLocked/pseuds/WhatLocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mageirocophobia - the intense fear of having to cook.  According to Sherlock, he has it.  According to Mycroft, Sherlock is lying. </p><p>After yet again falling victim to one of Sherlocks white lies John decides that it is his time to fool the detective and with the help of Sherlocks arch enemy, it might actually just be possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Phobia

~~~~~~~~~~

John wasn’t surprised, not really, when the black car glided silently up next to him on the way home from work.  After all, it had been a good month, maybe more, since Mycroft had felt the need to kidnap him.  Obviously Sherlock wasn’t cooperating again.  

“Doctor Watson, what a coincidence” came Mycrofts smooth voice, as his face appeared in the now open window.

“Yeah, that’s exactly what it is” John replied flatly and Mycrofts face disappeared as the door opened, a silent command to enter the car.  Deciding that the lift home would actually be welcome John walked over and slid into the car, closing the door behind him.

“Mycroft" he said in way of greeting as the car silently pulled into traffic, doing a u-turn.  ‘ _Obviously going the long way home then_ ’ John thought to himself as Mycroft smiled back at him in that tight, not really smiling way that he had.

“So” Mycroft began, thankfully not waiting for John to ask what was going on this time round.  “How are things at Baker Street?” he asked and John was pretty sure that a) Mycroft knew exactly how things were at Baker Street and b) he didn’t really care for John’s opinion on the matter but John decided that since he was getting a free lift after a rather busy day, he would humour the man.

“Good.  Same as always.  And what about you, how are things at…wherever it is that you…live?”  It occurred to John at that moment that he had never given Mycrofts dwellings a thought before.  If he wasn’t bugging Sherlock he always seemed to be at work.  

Mycroft gave a small chuckle.  “And what about Sherlock?  Are you two still living in domestic bliss?” he asked, ignoring Johns question and John frowned, not wanting to let on just how well the _domestic bliss_ was back at home, although if Mycroft hadn’t been able to tell by the way John had been walking, then he was losing his touch.  Just the thought of the previous nights activities brought a slight heat to John’s cheeks.

“Perfectly satisfactory, I see” Mycroft said, answering his own question.  

John resolutely refused to discuss his and Sherlocks sex life, using innuendos or any other way, with Sherlocks brother, so instead he said, “Life is fine, same as always.  Sherlock is, well, Sherlock and I still manage to get by.” And then, without knowing why he added, “Sherlock is a lot more open now, though.”

At this, Mycrofts left eyebrow rose as if he doubted it very much.  “How so?” he asked skeptically.

“Well…” John started and then realised that anything that Sherlock had shared with him since they started going out was not something he wanted to share with Mycroft, but there sat Mycroft, skeptical as always about his brothers human side, waiting for an answer.  “Well…” John stuttered.  “For starters, there is the bees” he supplied, somewhat lamely.

“The bees?” Mycroft repeated.

“Yeah.  He has a thing for bees.  Well, no….not, not a _thing_ , but you know…he really likes them.”  Jesus, he was doing a pants job at this.  Why was he suddenly struggling to communicate like an educated forty two year old man?

“Bees?” Mycroft repeated again, flatly.

“Also, there is Redbeard” he announced and was proud at the way he had somehow shocked Mycroft, not that the man let it show too much, but the slight widening of the eyes and the small moue of the mouth gave it away.

“And of course the Mageirocophobia” he added on.

“The Mageirocophobia?” Mycroft, again repeated, which John was starting to find odd.  The Holmes brothers detested repetition.

“Yeah, his fear of cooking.  He told me all about it.”

A creepy kind of smile took over Mycrofts face and a dark chuckle rumbled from behind closed lips.  “His fear of cooking?” he repeated.

“Yeah” John confirmed.  “At first I just figured it was Sherlock being Sherlock but then I actually made him cook something and he seriously lost all colour in his face, had the shakes and the sweats.  Everything.  Later that night he told me all about how it had developed in his childhood after witnessing your aunty Iris suffer severe burns in a cooking accident and despite seeing a therapist it just never got better.”

At this Mycrofts little chuckle turned into outright laughter, and something John thought he recognised as merriment appeared on the older mans face.

John was about to ask what was so funny when everything fell into place. “He was lying” he groaned wearily.

“Hmmm, yes, it seems my brother managed to act his way out of doing work, once again.”

“So, he has done this before then?” John asked, feeling slightly better.

“Absolutely.  When he was six he acquired a wheel chair from god knows where and convinced the new nanny that was watching him while Mummy and father went away for a week that he was a paraplegic and could most definitely not clean his room, or any other part of the house and then accused her of being insensitive.  Then at boarding school he claimed a severe case of home sickness for an entire term and a half so the woman who cleaned the common rooms would take pity on him and wash all of his clothing for him, as well as iron it.  Apparently he made himself throw up on two seperate occasions when the poor dear actually tried to show him how to use the washing machines.  Then while he was at uni he had a job, briefly, the only one he has ever had, working as a barista at some cafe’.  There he managed to individually convince four of the female staff and two of the male staff that they were going out with him and kept promising them sweet nothings to cover the front counter for him while he did work out the back.  His work out the back consisted of going outside to smoke and drink free coffee for six hours. After three months, if you would believe that it carried on that long, the two men realised that they were both in a relationship with Sherlock only to then realise that neither of them were actually in a relationship with Sherlock and his cushy little set up fell apart.”

“How does one person, let alone six, think they are in a relationship with someone when there is no actual relationship?”

“I decided that it was not worth my time trying to figure that one out” Mycroft answered with a slight confused frown and then his usual look of superiority returned.  “But the point of the matter is that Sherlock is in actual fact a fantastic cook. If he hadn’t been so hell bent on being a pirate when he was younger he most certainly could have been a very respectful chef.  It is quite possibly where his love of chemistry started.  The question now, Doctor Watson, is what are you going to do about my brothers recent bout of deceitfulness this time?”

That was a damn good question.  He could just go and confront the man, but Sherlock would just wave it off and still refuse to do any cooking.  There would be no satisfaction whatsoever for John, and due to the fact that John had been living with this lie for over three months now, he felt he deserved some form of satisfaction.

It seemed that Mycroft had read his mind.  “As it so happens, John, I may be able to help you out.”

John looked at Mycroft, wondering if it was worth selling his soul to the devil.

“You see, for the past two days I have been trying to get my brother to do a small case for a friend of mine.  Something of a personal matter for the man, and alas, Sherlock is being his usual difficult self.  If you would be so kind as to help me sway his opinion I do believe that we can work in a way to ‘ _mess with my brothers head’,_ as I am sure you would aptly put it, in the process.”

John decided that, yes, it was most definitely worth selling his soul to the devil. 

“What did you have in mind?” he asked somewhat cautiously.

“Have you ever heard of  Automatonophobia?” Mycroft asked, and that creepy kind of smile was back on his face.

~o~

“What did he want this time?” Sherlock asked as John walked through into the kitchen, not even bothering to look up from what ever it was he was studying under his microscope.

“Oh, you know.  The same as always.  Just being his usual nosy, interfering self” he answered, taking of his jacket as he made his way into the living room and hanging it up.  It was always good when he didn’t have to lie to Sherlock.  

“Thanks by the way” he said walking back into the kitchen and positioning himself behind Sherlock, wrapping his arms around the other mans waist.  “For not taking on that case he asked you to” and John nuzzled his nose into the back of Sherlocks hair, inhaling the scent that he knew so well.

“Hmm?” Sherlock asked, finally pulling away from the microscope and craning his head around to look up at John.  “Why’s that?”

“He was telling me all about the old codger who is being black mailed.  Apparently he has all of these…” at this, John shuddered and looked away, wincing.

“Has what?” Sherlock asked, now seeming very interested indeed.  It was all John could do, not to smile.  

He pulled his features into a grimacing sort of disgusted look and quietly spat out the word “Dummies.”

“Dummies?” Sherlock queried.

“Yes, you know the kind.  Ventriloquists use them to…and they…god, they’re bloody creepy.  How anyone can stand to be around them.  And your brother, for some reason thought that it might appeal to me in order to talk you into doing the case.  God, just the thought…” and at that, John let a violent shiver run up his spine and he winced again, just for good measure and then had a horrible feeling that he may have overdone it.  His fears were soon laid to rest when a thoughtful, yet slightly manic look came into Sherlocks eyes and he muttered “Interesting” as he studied John a bit longer and then turned back to face the cupboards in front of them.  

Finally John let the smile that had been trying to break free, loose and he hugged in close to Sherlock again.  “Well, thanks anyway” he said dropping the smile and placing a kiss to the back of Sherlocks neck.  Sherlock stayed silent and John took that as his cue to head off to the bathroom to shower.

~o~

“Automatonophobia”  Sherlock spat out, not two hours later, after spending the evening laying on the couch in his mind palace.  It was where John had found him after finishing up in the bathroom.

“Excuse me?” John queried, looking up from the paper he was reading, not knowing what Sherlock had just said, let alone what it was was meant to mean. 

“It is a fear of anything that falsely represents a sentient being” Sherlock explained.  “Animatronics, wax statues, scarecrows…ventriloquist's dummies” he trailed off, looking slyly over at John, without actually moving his head.

John saw where this was going and again, had to fight not to smile.  “I’m not scared of them Sherlock” he huffed in lieu of laughing out loud.  “It’s just…not right, okay.  It’s just…creepy” and he buried his face back in the newspaper as Sherlock said, “It’s a fear, John.  Perfectly normal.  Nothing to be ashamed of.”

“It’s not a fear” John mumbled again and this time he dropped the paper onto the coffee table and stood up to make his way to the kitchen in order to start getting dinner ready, since he knew damn well Sherlock wasn’t going to do it, despite being perfectly capable, both physically and mentally.

~o~

“Is it all dolls, or just the dummies?” 

“Drop it Sherlock.” John looked out the window as the taxi rumbled past, London only just barely waking up.  He had been abruptly woken, in the middle of a rather pleasant dream, at five o'clock that morning, so it wasn’t too hard to act pissed off, but the reason that he had had to act pissed off also made it hard to be pissed off.

Apparently Sherlock hadn’t slept at all that night.  According to Sherlock, Mycroft had gotten in contact with him again and made him an offer he couldn’t refuse if Sherlock were to take the case.  According to John, Sherlock had spent all night, curious about Johns _not-really_ phobia and had contacted Mycroft to bargain a deal to make it appear he had been offered a deal he couldn’t refuse.

“Just for future reference” Sherlock said, sounding disingenuously apologetic.  “I wouldn’t want you to come home one day and find a Kewpie doll sitting on the desk and…how bad is it exactly, this fear of dummies?”

“Kewpie…?” John had now turned his gaze from the passing cityscape and was looking at Sherlock with a look that clearly asked if he had gone mad.  “No, and I told you before, it’s not…”

“Yes, yes, I know.  Your masculinity would be in compromise if you were to profess a weakness for something as irrational as dolls.”

“Dummies” John spat “And how is this any worse than you apparent phobia?”

This seemed to take Sherlock a bit by surprise as the scoffing frown on his face and the way he opened and then closed his mouth indicated that he was about to deny having anything as banal as a phobia.  He apparently then remembered his little lie that he had told all those months ago and his nose rose an inch or two in the air and with an indignant sniff he looked out the window.  “I have a perfectly sound psychological reason for suffering from that particular ailment, as I have well told you.”

Judging by the tone in his voice and his posture this conversation was apparently over.  John turned back to his window and covering his mouth with his hand he finally let the grin stretch his mouth.  He only hoped that he could carry on the ruse once they got to the clients house.

~o~

As a general rule, John didn’t have a problem with dolls, puppets, mannequins, or any other inanimate object, but when you walk into a room and there are eighteen ventriloquist dummies, of various different sizes, staring at you from chairs and shelves and cupboard tops, one can’t stop the creepy shiver that runs down ones spine.  God, one was even life sized.  After getting over his brief shock of seeing an actual obsession with what was essentially dolls, John remembered that he had a role to play, and thankfully, since Sherlock was staring at him, watching his every tiny reaction, that shiver had served him well.

“Oh..god” he moaned quietly, his eyes darting from one doll to the next, his back not leaving the open door.  Dredging up memories from his time in the army (nothing too disturbing or unsettling) John was able to elevate his breathing and get his upper lip and temples to break out into a mild sweat.  It wasn’t hard to fake the shaking in his left hand as he stepped back into the hall.  “I’m…no, just….I’ll be out…” and he turned and fled the room, the sound of Sherlock calling out “bottom of the stairs, first door on the left.”

John didn’t know whether to be flattered, amused or really, really pissed off that Sherlock had anticipated that John, the John who was scared of dummies, would throw up and had taken note of where the bathroom was, but he was thankful of it and quickly made his way down stairs and into the toilet where it was exactly where Sherlock had directed.

Once inside he shut and locked the door and then dug his hand into his pocket, pulling out a small bottle that Mycroft had given him yesterday, proving that at some level the man had had this planned before picking John up.

_“Take one of these and bite the plastic coating” he informed John, handing over a nondescript bottle to John._

_“What is it?” John had asked somewhat dubiously._

_“Nothing dangerous, I assure you” Mycroft replied.  John continued to stare at him, not agreeing to putting anything in his mouth until he had an answer._

_“It is just a capsule, the entire thing is perfectly safe and dissolvable.  Inside the capsule is a liquid.  Just swish it around your mouth  a few times and if you can stomach it swallow, if not, spit it into the toilet before flushing.”_

_“And the point of this?”  John asked, still not clear on what it was._

_“It will make your breath smell like you have just thrown up.  A common symptom of severe Automatonophobia after being exposed to the source of the fear.”_

_John looked somewhat skeptically at Mycroft and Mycroft let out a small sigh, the kind that relayed that John was a simpleton and Mycroft was going to have to placate his tiny little mind._

_“Sherlock needs to be convinced, truely convinced, that you have a chronic aversion to these things.  If you run off pretending to be sick, he will look for evidence.  This will be the most efficient way to provide that evidence unless you can actually make yourself throw up, but seeing as you are a man of medicine I can’t believe that you would be comfortable doing that, just to pull one over on my brother.”_

John looked at the small orange capsule that had been inside the bottle, god, it was even the colour of vomit, and then quickly popped it into his mouth and bit down praying that he hadn’t somehow pissed Mycroft off and was actually taking some sort of suicide pill.  The taste that flooded his mouth put an end to that thought.  A suicide pill would have been kinder.  God it was foul.  With a rather Herculean effort on Johns behalf he managed to keep it in his mouth in order to swish it around a few times before spitting it and the plastic capsule into the toilet where he flushed and then made his way to the sink.  Looking in the mirror in front of him he saw that the pill had helped in more than one way.  The effort of not actually throwing up after tasting that had left John a bit pastier than normal.  

After giving his mouth the briefest of rinse outs he turned around and made his way out of the bathroom only to find Sherlock coming down the stairs, a worried Mr Giles Gill trailing behind him.

“Ah, John.  You’ve finished expelling the contents of your stomach, and just in time” Sherlock announced somewhat gleefully.  “We have finished here.”

John watched, starting to feel a bit pissed off at the lack of concern from his apparent partner, as Sherlock breezed past him and headed towards the front of the house, their client quickly trailing behind.

“Are you sure you can get them back?” the older man, probably in his mid fifties, enquired in a small panicky voice.

“They will be back in your possession before the day is out, Mr Gill, I assure you” Sherlock arrogantly assured and strode out of the building, leaving John to say farewell to their client and follow Sherlock before Sherlock left him behind.  Again.

~o~

“So, it’s quite instant then” Sherlock stated once they were back in the confines of yet another cab.  “The symptoms, they hit suddenly.  You really are scared of those things.”  John noted that Sherlock didn’t sound concerned for Johns mental wellbeing, or contrite at purposely exposing John to the source of his fabricated fear, but rather interested as if John was suddenly a new puzzle to figure out.  It wasn’t the first time that John had been the source of Sherlocks curiosity, nor would it be the last.

“Can we please drop it?” John said quietly and to his surprise Sherlock did.  He even further surprised John by leaning over to kiss John, maybe as a form of apology, maybe one of comfort, but more likely as thanks for letting Sherlock experience witnessing the effects of a phobia he hadn’t witnessed before.  John angled his head up to meet Sherlock and parted his lips, just a bit.  It was then that Sherlock scrunched up his nose and stopped his journey towards John.  “Maybe we will pick some gum up on the way” and angled his head to kiss Johns cheek instead, before straightening up and looking out his window.

John bit his lip to stop smiling and watched as Sherlocks fingers tapped out a rhythm on his thighs.

~o~

John had never wanted to look at something, yet at the same time _not_ want to look at something, so bad in his life.  In his hand, Sherlock held the items that had been taken from Giles Gills home three days ago.  When he had asked Sherlock to relocate them, and make sure no copies had been made, he had been unable to state what was on them, apparently telling Sherlock (because John was in the bathroom pretending to vomit out of sheer fear at the time that discussion took place) that he would know them as soon as he found them.  John had honestly expected photos of him with someone other than his (now deceased) wife, or in compromising positions with underage boys or some such nonsense.  What he hadn’t expect Sherlock to tell him, nor should he have been surprised at hearing, was that the photos were most certainly of Mr Giles in uncompromising positions, but with the very life sized dummy that had been sitting in a rather expensive arm chair in the room full of other dummies.

So, here was John, feeling the conflicting emotions of pure curiosity as to how that would work and slight revulsion over someone wanting to not only have intimate relations with one of those things, but to also record the proceedings.  

The decision was taken out of his hands as Sherlock thrust one of the pictures in front of his face, not so much for the shock factor of seeing a well respected, educated man _in flagrante'_ with a life size ventriloquists dummy, but rather to see Johns reaction to the source of his apparent severe, irrational fear.

The ‘ _Jesus fucking chris_ t’ happened instantly and John looked away, not actually sure his brain was able to fully compute what it had just seen.  This seemed to appease Sherlocks curiosity when it came to Johns apparent fear as a satisfied grin spread across his face as he tucked the photo in to his coat pocket with the rest.  John was still feeling slightly disturbed at viewing the image.

“You’re a fucking prick” John muttered, and it was true.  Not only was Sherlock feeding Johns not so real fear but he was pretty sure that Giles Gill would have been much happier with _less_ people seeing what exactly it was that he got up to with Slappy the Giant but then a thought occurred to him and he started giggling.

“What?” Sherlock asked and John was certain he thought the man sounded just a little bit alarmed.

“Do you think the other dummies were jealous” and then he winced at just how much in bad taste his joke actually was, but Sherlock huffed out a short laugh of his own and the subject was dropped.

~o~

Two days later, and many aborted inquiries, from Sherlock, over Johns fear, John found himself climbing the stairs to 221B Baker Street, trying to figure out how to break the news to Sherlock that this phobia didn’t actually exist.  Entering the flat he found that a solution had miraculously presented itself.

There, sitting in Sherlocks chair, facing the door, was a ventriloquists dummies.  It had a crop of short blond hair and big, blue, dead eyes.  It’s smiling lower jaw hung open leaving a gaping unnatural looking hole in its head.  One limp brown and blue checked arm was hanging over the armrest of the chair while the other was folded neatly so its hand was sitting in its denim clad lap. Two light brown leather boots stuck out at the end of the tiny jeans and John conceded how it would actually be possible to be scared of these things.  They weren’t at all pleasant to look at.

“Mr Gill sent it to us as a way of thanks” Sherlock announced, stepping from the kitchen and into the living room.  John didn’t take his eyes off of the dummy in Sherlocks chair, but out of his peripheral vision he could see that Sherlock was once again studying him, looking for a reaction, and who was John to deny Sherlock what Sherlock wanted.  If a reaction he was after then a reaction he was going to get.

In four long strides John was standing in front of Sherlocks chair and plucking the dummy up and looking for the hole that he knew would be hidden away in the fold of the things shirt.  Finding it, he shoved his hand into it, placed fingers where they should be and turned around, holding the dummy up to face himself.

“That was very kind of him, don’t you think John?” John made the dummy say, not moving his own lips.  Another thing that Sherlock didn't know about.  As a young lad he had mastered the art of ventriloquy, just to piss his sister off, because she had wanted to do it, but lacked the skill.

“Why, yes, it was very generous of Mr Gill” John replied in earnest at the dummy and then turned both his and the dummies gaze on Sherlock.

 The look on Sherlocks face was priceless.  His eyes were wide, his mouth was gaping like a fish on dry land and his hands were doing that hesitating twitchy thing, like he didn’t know where to put them, in that nervous way he had when he wasn’t sure of how to react.

“But, you…I thought…” he finally stammered and John grinned.

“We know” the dummy said.  “That’s what he wanted you to think” and John made the dummy cock his head in the direction of John.

“But, you said…why would…” John almost giggled at the way Sherlock was addressing the dummy and not John.

“One word, Sherlock” the dummy said and then sang out the word “Mageirocophobia."

“Mageir…” Sherlock went to question and then John watched him clamp his mouth shut and swallow, hard as the realisation that he had been caught out in a lie dawned on him.  The guilty look then turned to one of anger.  “Mycroft” he sneered.

“Yes, Mycroft” the dummy confirmed.

“Stop that” Sherlock spat, finally turning his attention back to John, a very annoyed scowl decorating his face.  John just grinned.

“How could you do that John?  You?” Sherlock sulked, crossing his arms over his chest and pointedly not looking at John or the dummy.

“What, you mean lie to you?” John laughed.

“Not only that, John.  Yon conspired with _Mycroft_ to get me to do his work for him. You consorted with the enemy.  This is going to take a lot of making up, John” and John could actually see as he mentally sunk deeper into his sulk.

A small chuckle left Johns throat.  “I can’t believe that you are angry with me” he said.  “You, Sherlock Holmes, lied to me to get out of cooking _eggs_. And then you kept up the lie.  If it wasn’t for your brother I would never have found out that a) you used to love cooking and are very capable and that b) you don’t actually have an aunty Iris.  If anything, I should be angry at you.  You should be grovelling at _my_ feet begging for forgiveness and trying to find out what _you_ could be doing in order to make it up to me.”

At this Sherlock looked back up at John, a scowl on his face. 

“In fact” John said with a grin, “I know the perfect way you can make it up to me.”

The scowl on Sherlocks face lifted to be replaced with a cheeky grin.

“Not that” John told him and the grin dropped back into a scowl.  “No, you can make up the fact that you purposely lied to me for three months by cooking me dinner tonight.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest but John kept talking.  “And not eggs on toast, nope.  Tonight I want something special.  Something really, really nice.  I do believe that Mycroft said you excelled in French cuisine, no?”

Suddenly Sherlocks sulk dropped again and the look he got when he was about to do something he knew John wouldn’t approve of fell over his face instead.  “Oh, John” Sherlock purred, moving towards John so he was close enough to take the dummy out of his hands and drop it onto the armchair behind them.  “Je peux me faire pardonner d'une bien meilleure façon.”

John had no idea what Sherlock had just murmured but the way his voice had dropped to seductive levels and the way his eyes were narrowed in on John, he was sure he agreed full heartedly.

Sherlocks hands moved to Johns shoulders and slowly trailed down his arms.  They then moved back up and over his shoulders, down to his chest, where they started plucking at buttons.

“Je vais te faire sentir tellement bien que tu ne penseras même plus à ma .... mauvaise conduite.”

John nodded as his shirt was pushed off of his shoulders, still not knowing what Sherlock was on about, but at the moment, he didn’t care.  Sherlock tugged the vest he had on over his head and moved his hands to Johns waist band, pulling the shorter man closer.

“Tu seras tellement perdu dans ta jouissance que tu ne penseras même plus à la nourriture et encore moins à moi en train de la faire cuire” and John groaned as Sherlock, after undoing his button and fly, dropped down to his knees.

Sherlock looked up at John and grinned.  “Je sais toujours comment te conquérir, mon cher John“ he said and before John could respond to words he didn’t understand he felt a wet warmth engulf his cock.

“ _Jesus, fuck_ ” he groaned and without thought his hands went up to Sherlocks head and his fingers tangled in the other mans hair.

John held on for dear life, his head thrown back and his eyes closed as his breathing ratcheted up to almost hyperventilating speeds as Sherlocks lips worked on the head of his cock, while his tongue licked over his frenulum.  One hand was gently squeezing Johns balls and John couldn’t help the small thrusts his hips were doing.  This only encouraged Sherlock to take John deeper, his tongue running along the underside of Johns erection and John didn’t even try and stop the loud moan that was pulled out of his throat.

“Fuck, Sherlock…. _so good_ …fuck.”

Sherlock knew what John liked, he knew how much suction and to use just a hint of teeth.  He knew that John liked to feel Sherlocks tongue working away and he knew that John also liked his balls played with and he used all of this information to his advantage.  He used it to reduce John to a thrusting, panting mess who gripped tight fingers into Sherlocks hair and thrust hard, just a few times, until he unloaded his release down into Sherlocks mouth, who happily swallowed every drop.

Once John’s orgasm had finished ripping through him he felt how his legs were trembling and he slowly sunk to his knees, in front of Sherlock to find the man frantically jerking himself of, whispering Johns name over and over again.

“Good, look at you “ John awed and then carefully replaced Sherlocks hand with his own.  “Let me” and he took over the fast pace that Sherlock had set up, squeezing when he knew Sherlock would enjoy it most, twisting his wrist at the crown, like he knew how Sherlock liked it.  Sherlocks thrusting suddenly became uncoordinated and with a stuttered “ _J..J…John_ ” John felt the other mans come pulse out over his fist, where he continued to stroke, although, somewhat gentler, until the man had completely spent himself.

With a satisfied groan, Sherlock flopped forward, his chin resting on Johns shoulder, his arms hanging limply by his sides, while he got his breathing under control as John gently rubbed his hands up and down Sherlocks sides, not caring that he was further soiling the man’s shirt.

“It looks a bit like you” Sherlock said after a few minutes and again, John had no idea what he was saying.

“The dummy that Mr Gill sent.  It even dresses like you.”  John looked over his shoulder at what Sherlock was looking at and there was the dummy, flopped on its side on Sherlocks chair, grinning manically at the two men.  John frowned. 

“It looks nothing like me” he stated turning his head back so he wasn’t craning his neck.  “And you need to get up and go get showered.”

Sherlock sat back on his heels and looked down at John.  “Or” Sherlock said slowly, a small smile coming over his mouth, “We could both just go to bed” he suggested, not even sounding half as wrecked as John felt. 

John ignored the glint in his eye and a smile of his own pulled the corners of his lips up.  “Oh, no” he said, standing, pulling up his jeans which were still pooled around his ankles.  “You are going to have a shower and clean up and then” He said helping Sherlock to stand up, tucking away his now flaccid penis, back into his pants.  “You are going to cook me dinner, and maybe then I might think about completely forgiving you for being a right git.”

“But, I just gave you a _fantastic_ blow job” Sherlock whined.

John grinned.  “Yes, you did, and that made up perfectly for lying to me.”

Sherlock frowned, clearly confused.

“But now you need to make up for purposely going out of your way to expose me to my fear just so you could study my responses.”

“It wasn’t even a real phobia, John” Sherlock tried to reason, but John just ignored him.

“And you said the dummy looked like me” John mock pouted.  

The pout didn’t last long before Sherlock moved in and kissed it away.  “You are much taller than he is” he grinned against Johns mouth and John playfully pushed him away.

“That’s one more thing to make up for” John stated and walked away, a slight sway to his hips. “I suggest you make dinner very, _very_ special.”

John didn’t even make it to the hallway before he heard Sherlocks hurried footsteps following him and before long there were two long arms and a body behind his propelling him along towards the bedroom.

“If you are going to sashay off like that, John, then I am afraid, dinner is just going to have to wait” Sherlock growled in a low voice, and wait it did, for there were more important things to worry about.

**Author's Note:**

> The following is Sherlocks French translations:
> 
> “Oh, John.” “I can make it up to you in much, much better ways.”  
> “I will make you feel so good that you will think no more about my…misdemeanours.”  
> “You will be so lost to pleasure that you won’t even think about food, let alone about me cooking it.”  
> “I always know how to win you over, my dear John.”
> 
> A HUGE thanks to ember88 for correcting my French translations, which had originally come from Google Translator. I shudder to think what I was originally saying :o


End file.
